If the Sun Never Sets (If Love 2)

"Blake, this is Farrah. Farrah, this is my friend, Blake." Landon’s introduction sailed through Blake's haze of consciousness. His friend’s voice sounded far off, like the people you heard in dreams. The ones that try to shake you awake when all you want to do is sink deeper into your delusion.

Landon gave Blake a frown that said, Why the fuck are you acting so weird?

Meanwhile, Farrah sat, eyes wide, fingers strangling the black leather portfolio in her lap. Her face matched the color of the white linen tablecloth.

Blake’s breath hissed out in shock. This was real.

He’d fantasized about their reunion a million times, but now that it was happening he had no clue what to do.

He just stood there, gawking at her like an idiot.

Say something. Anything.

"You haven't aged a day.”

Anything but that.

Landon choked on his water while pink rose on Blake’s cheekbones. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this flustered. He felt like a damn schoolboy with a crush, one who’d waited five years to see the girl of his dreams again, only for his first words to her be…you haven’t aged a day.

He wanted to die.

Landon’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter, but Farrah’s expression remained smooth and hard as stone.

“Thanks,” she said. Zero emotion, not even sarcasm.

The Farrah Blake knew would’ve called him out on his lame-ass greeting faster than a teenager could text in class, but the Farrah he knew also used to look at him like he hung the stars in the sky—until he fucked it all up.

"Do you know each other?" Landon asked, controlling his mirth long enough to ask the world’s most obvious question.

Blake forced his legs to move. He sank into the chair next to Landon and tried not to shake too much as he lifted a glass of water to his lips. "We studied abroad together in Shanghai."

He felt Landon's sharp inhale beside him. He'd told Landon about Farrah one drunk night after he and Cleo split for good. Blake had been spiraling, drowning in guilt and regret and booze, and his usual filter had been down for the count. In its absence, confessions about Farrah and what happened in Shanghai tumbled out. Blake hadn’t divulged Farrah’s name, but Landon was a smart guy. Blake could tell by the look in his friend’s eyes that Landon had already pieced the puzzle together.

The waiter showed up and took their orders. Blake didn’t remember what he ordered. He didn’t care; he was too busy staring at Farrah.

It’d been five years, and God, she was even more beautiful than he remembered. More sophisticated and self-assured. Time had sculpted her features into a masterpiece, and her slim figure had blossomed with curves. She was no longer a girl but a woman—one who sent desire curling through his gut even as his heart ached.

Farrah, on the other hand, hadn't so much as looked at him since he sat down.

“So.” Landon filled the silence. “Farrah, as I mentioned in our call, Blake is looking for a designer for his new condo. Two bedrooms, two baths, in the West Village. It'll be his primary residence from now on, so he needs someone to spruce it up. Make it feel like home.” He nudged Blake. “Right?”

"What? Oh, uh, yeah."

Get your shit together, man.

“Right.” Landon's gaze ping-ponged between Blake and Farrah. “About the compensation. Since this is so last minute, Blake will pay twenty percent above—”

"I can't do it." Farrah’s quiet refusal brought the conversation screeching to a halt. She kept her focus on Landon as she explained, “I’m sorry for wasting your time. I appreciate you thinking of me, and I’ll pay you back for this meal. But I just remembered I have, um, another project I need to work on, and I won’t have time for this. In fact, I should probably—”

“Double.”

Farrah stiffened at Blake’s offer. “What?”

“I’ll pay you double your rate if you agree to work with me.”

“That’s not going to—”

“Triple.”